Lullaby
by Anna Christy
Summary: Short one-shot. AU circa Season 5. Dean never pictured this as the future, but you take the comforts you can get.


_I do not own any of these lovely characters; they are solely the brainchildren of Eric Kripke and the folks at Warner Bros. _

_Old prompt/one-shot from AU circa late Season 5. _

_Cheers!_  
><em>Anna<em>

* * *

><p>He stared at the ceiling, hearing the steady drip of rain come in through the cracks. A flicker of lightening through the curtains, chased by thunder farther off.<p>

"You're thinking about him again. Your brother."

He turned and glanced at the man who had spoken, now regarding him intently on the bed. Another lightning strike illuminated for a second the sheet clinging to his hip in the heat. Heavenly perfected skin since marred with earthly matters. The man shifted, producing the snap of a lighter and then the soft red glow of a cigarette.

"Yeah, well. What do you want me to say, Cas," he finally replied. "Bad dreams." He watched a spiral of smoke work up towards the leaking ceiling. Bad dreams haunted him constantly; this was war and they were losing. Death was finally close, after so many long years of taunting it.

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><p><em>(Then)<em>

He didn't accept it, not at first. Couldn't believe that it had happened, that his baby brother-Sammy-could have just ... fuck, given in like that. Detroit went up in flames. He would never know why, exactly, it happened the way it did. What was said that tipped it over the edge, what bargain might have been made, what the god damn reason was. He had been too late, in any case. Evil incarnate had been casually wiping the tears from Sam's- Lucifer's face, smiling to himself.

It was weeks later when it finally settled deep and cold in his bones. That was the night he stood screaming for Michael, anyone, to take him out of this. And that was the night he realized the line to heaven had gone dead.

He sat in the motel room then, with the intent of having a long, private conversation with his gun, after a fifth of Jack. Somewhere in the early dawn hours he pulled himself from the floor and stared at the Glock: temptation on the nightstand.

"Dean. What are you doing."

The former angel placed a hand on his shoulder, startling him from his reverie. "There are people here who need your protection, your guidance."

He gave a desperate half-laugh. "Yeah, I've just been doing a great job of that."

Castiel stood uncertainly beside him in the dark, his figure somewhat less menacing without the trenchcoat. "What happened with your brother ..." He trailed off as Dean sat slowly on the bed, drawing wrenching ragged breaths. After so many days it was hard to even keep shedding tears.

"Just. Just sit down. Here. I can't ... I need ..."

The mattress dipped as Castiel quietly sat, concerned yet infinitely understanding in way that made it hard for Dean to believe he was fully human. "All is not yet lost." He hesitated, then ventured a hand out to run along Dean's back. The action apparently was supposed to have some calming effect on humans.

Dean shook under his fingers. "I can't do it anymore, live like this," he muttered. "I can't feel anything anymore."

His suspicions about the gun confirmed, Castiel lifted Dean's face and studied through the darkness this human who had been through too much, who was on the edge of coming apart. "Let me help."

Dean welcomed the cool hands on his face, a constant in the currently spinning world. He opened his eyes and took in the close sight of Castiel, expression set with something like determined concern. "I just need ..." he whispered before meeting his lips gently.

A rainstorm broke against the motel window as he guided the fallen angel with him onto the bed. God, and he should really be more concerned about how completely fucked up this was, but the pure contact of skin on skin was electricity through his body. The cold numbness that had taken root in him briefly receded, the hangman's noose slackened.

"What is it you want me to do." Castiel leaned back, leaving one hand by Dean's neck and the other skimming down the side of his ribcage. His own body was taunt and confident; the human remains of a heavenly possession.

Dean pulled him in, an ounce of comfort in every touch. I just need you to hold me.

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><p><em>(Now)<em>

Castiel snuffed out the remains of the cigarette, his figure in relief with another flash of lightening. "You should sleep."

Dean felt him reach out, begin tracing the now-familiar patterns of scars across his naked torso. A calming mantra. Castiel's breath whispered across his collarbone, and Dean welcomed the heat of his body closer.

"It's almost the end, isn't it," he murmured.

"... Yes."


End file.
